


Point of Weakness

by DickWhitmansCat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-11
Updated: 2014-03-11
Packaged: 2018-01-15 08:48:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1298782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DickWhitmansCat/pseuds/DickWhitmansCat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Either you're going to be a father to a child that you might not see in the short term but can very easily be found if need be, or--"</p><p>"Or--?"</p><p>"You're free."</p><p>"Funny word for 'alone', innit?  'Free'."</p><p>Post-S3.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Point of Weakness

It's half past eleven at night.  Sherlock lies on the sofa, feet propped up against the arm, eyes trained on the ceiling when the series of familiar sounds engages -- firm click, pull then push of the front door; those horrible shoes of his on the stairs, _oooh, and he's got something on his mind, now, hasn't he?_ ; the firmer, angrier unlocking of the flat door--

"Say it," Sherlock hisses, not bothering to look over to confirm that it's John because Mrs. Hudson doesn't wear a 9 in men's loafers and even if she did, the woman hasn't got an angry bone in her--

"Oh, no, you don't," John whispers, voice tinged with something dark that Sherlock doesn't recognize.  "Not this time."  Sherlock smiles to himself. _Oh, yes, I do._

"And he's smiling," John mumbles, a tremble creeping into his voice.  "Jesus, he's smiling."

"Waiting, John," Sherlock corrects, the smile gone.  "I'm _waiting_."

"For?"

"For you to tell me what it is that's making you so angry that you got dressed so quickly you didn't properly tie your left shoe.  Some military man you are--"

"I swear to God, Sherlock, if you say another bloody word I'm walking out that door and you'll never see me again, do you hear me?"

Sherlock swings his legs around and sits up, the thin smile returned.  He nods in such a way that John can't tell if it's deferential or smug, and he knows that John can't tell, and it makes the back of his neck prickle just so.

John snorts, looking away.  "There's no winning with you.  Ever.  Is there, Sherlock?"

"Define 'winning'--"

"Piss off," John mutters, turning for the door.

"John--" Sherlock calls after him, softer.  It's only when John turns back that Sherlock finally gets a good look at him.   _Christ, he's been crying.  Clearly hasn't slept in days.  Hasn't shaved all week--_

"Where's Mary?" Sherlock asks, sharply.

"Dunno," John says dully.  "Gone.  Apparently."

"Since when?"

"Does it matter?"

"Very much."   _Both from deductive and concern standpoints_.

"Why don't you tell me, Sherlock?  Surely there's a stray fibre on my jumper that will tell you the exact nanosecond my wife decided to leave me.  Or perhaps the proof of the alcohol on my breath, or the precise fucking percentage of red in my eyes will tell you something--"

"Calm down, John," Sherlock says, watching him carefully.  "You sound ridiculous."

"I more than sound ridiculous, Sherlock.  I _am_ ridiculous--"

"You're drunk."

"I'm not.  Close.  But no, thank you, not there yet--"

"This has nothing to do with Mary," Sherlock says, cutting him off.

"Of course it does--"

"Mary left you three days ago, with a note of apology explaining that the child was not yours, though she'd very much wanted it to be because you'd make such a wonderful father, can't argue there, you already dress like one, and due to a series of rather extraordinary circumstances detailed in information you elected not to possess she has to go into deep, deep hiding.  Am I wrong?"

"You know you're not," John whispers, staring at his feet.  

"And in typical John Watson fashion, you're riddled with guilt over the possibility that either a) she's lying about the paternity bit to spare your feelings or b) she isn't, in which case you feel an extra dose of guilt heaped on top of the existing guilt because of the relief that brings.  In which case, I repeat:  say it."

John looks up and takes a deep breath.  "Is she lying?"

"About the baby?"

"Bloody hell, Sherlock, yes, of course about the baby."

 _Now we're getting somewhere._ "Do you want her to be?"

"If this is another of your games--"

"It's a legitimate question, John.  Do you want her to be?"

John pauses, considering.  "I don't know."

"Consider your options.  If she's lying, you're still going to be a father.  Do you want to be a father?"

"I did, anyway."  

"And now?"

"What was the other option?"  John scratches behind his ear, not quite meeting Sherlock's eye.   _He's leaning.  The leg, the stress_ \--

"Either you're going to be a father to a child that you might not see in the short term but can very easily be found if need be, or--"

"Or--?"

"You're free."

"Funny word for 'alone', innit?  'Free'."

Sherlock blinks.  "You'll never have what you thought you had with her again, and it's been eating you alive.  She violated your trust--"

"Yeah, well, so did you!"  John explodes, trembling.  "You _left_ me, Sherlock.  You let me think that you were dead, for Christ's sake--"

"I had to," Sherlock says, softly, looking down at the floor.

"You told your parents!  Molly knew.  Bloody _Molly_ \--"

"We've been over this, John.  It was for your own safety.  If any of Moriarty's network thought that I was alive, they'd have come after you.  I couldn't let that happen."

"I can take care of myself," John mumbles.

"Be that as it may--"

John fixes Sherlock with a cold stare.  "Go on, Sherlock.  Tell me.  Tell me what a liability I would have been.  There's nothing you don't know, so go on.  Tell me--"

"John," Sherlock says, voice a soft warning.

"Tell me!" John roars.  "Tell me how easy it was to make a mockery of me, of my feelings--"

Sherlock closes his eyes, shaking his head.  "You don't understand--"

"Don't I?  It seems pretty clear from my vantage point.  You're like a bloody animal, you look for the point of weakness, and you saw that you were mine--"

"John--"

"No, Sherlock, you're going to listen to me.  You saw that you were my weakness, and you needed to badly to be right, to win the bloody game, that you let me grieve for you for two years.  Two years!  And all along, you knew, you _knew_ \--"  John shakes his head, letting out an astonished laugh.  "You knew before I did, and you took advantage of that.  I've seen a lot of cruelty in my life, Sherlock Holmes, but you, oh, you're a special breed."

"Protecting you was cruel.  Very interesting indeed."  Sherlock rises to his feet, takes a step toward John.  "Tell me how cruel I am, John Watson."

"Cruel is sharing a flat with someone and cataloguing his every quality to use it against him," John shoots back, not at all rattled.  

"Mmmm," Sherlock agrees, inching closer.  "What else?"

"Cruel is using your superior understanding of human behaviour and nonverbally encouraging my already confused state," John continues, taking a step back as Sherlock moves closer.  "Cruel is leading me on, making me think that there was a ghost of a chance that you were just as confused as I was--"

"Undoubtedly there's more," Sherlock encourages as John backs up against the door.  

"Cruel is letting me marry someone else when you knew that wasn't what I wanted," John breathes as Sherlock moves in close enough to pin him against the door.  

"I sound like a right bastard, don't I," Sherlock breathes, grabbing John's face with both hands and kissing him.  John loops his arms around Sherlock's neck, hands sliding into his hair as he kisses back; hard, hungry, angry.  

Sherlock pulls away for air and smiles slightly.  "I had to be sure," he says softly, thumb grazing John's bottom lip.

John stares at Sherlock, fingers raking through his dark curls.  "And are you?"

"As sure as I've ever been," Sherlock purrs into John's ear, locking the door with one hand as the other starts to unbuckle his belt.

"And by the way," Sherlock whispers, nibbling on John's ear as the other hand finishes the unbuckling process.  "It isn't yours."

John lets out a feeble moan, half aroused, half relieved.

Sherlock smiles faintly as he takes John in hand.  "You still haven't said what you came here to say," he whispers, stroking him with his thumb.

"Christ, Sherlock," John whispers, eyelids fluttering.

"It's all right.  You don't have to say it," he murmurs, continuing his stroke.  "I already know.  And you know what else, John?"  Sherlock smiles.  "It's mutual."


End file.
